The Little Three
by WindowChild
Summary: Heroism descended. Thalia, Nico, Percy.


She was the daughter of Zeus, King of the Gods. It had occurred to her, seldom, but every so often, that this made her a princess. When it did, she would stare at her nondescript features in a mirror. To herself, she seemed so ordinary.

Black hair and blue eyes. Coloring meant to blend, to fly under the radar. She thought of herself as neither pretty nor ugly, and was glad for the solace of the huntresses. Nowq she wouldn't have to worry about whether others agreed with this.

She'd never stood out. Other than being resurrected, which was fairly unique, nothing all that wonderful had ever happened to her. Annabeth was the one who got the boys and the dreams; Thalia was never a friend of the future.

Sometimes, she was proud of her parentage. She was a child of the Big Three. For all of the drama and chaos that it brought, it left her stretching her neck just a little bit higher. She felt like she could.

Choosing to be a huntress. It was the most heroic action of her life thus far. She had turned her life around, all to protect the world from herself. She had given up a chance at romance, at conceptual future, all to save as many as she could. She'd trodden in her father's footsteps, and she'd gotten what she'd always wanted. To be happy.

* * *

He was son of Hades, Lord of the Dead. It wasn't too promising, especially not to a kid. It made it sound as if he'd never really have a chance at life, as if such things were already beyond hope. Not to say he didn't have respect for his father. He did, and to have some in return would have been his greatest wish.

Petite. He'd always been small, second and insignificant. Next to his sister, the ever-exception, he paled all the further. He was the younger, the less outstanding. He was incapable and insufficient, and in constant doubt of himself.

When he turned on everyone at camp, he'd been aware of what he was doing. It was a sort of right of passage; he was taking initiative, and he felt finally responsible for himself. Perhaps all it proved was that ten year-olds shouldn't be left to make their own decisions.

In the end, he was happy with who he was. He'd loved his sister, however much he resented and missed her. And he had a strange affection for his father, despite Hades' chronic inability to give affection back.

He'd convinced Hades to join the Gods. It was a small action maybe, but it had made all the difference in the world. A small act of heroism, in its own right. He'd played his part in saving them, and he'd always be thankful that he'd made at least one right choice. And they'd been proud too, his friends. They'd told him how grateful they were to him. It was all he'd really ever wanted. To be noticed.

* * *

He was son of Poseidon, Ruler of the Sea. It was not, in fact, the most ear-catching name of the Big Three. It did not bring immediate thoughts of power or importance; it took one a moment to realize the absolute significance. Percy, he was happy to be who he was. Of all of the Gods, Poseidon was not the worst to have descended from.

He'd always hated himself when he was younger. Slacker, with foreseeable future and no foreseeable end to his misery. He was trapped in a cycle of failure and restarts; they were endless, and they made him fear that happiness would never truly come.

Then, he'd discovered he was special. A demigod, a _something_. In truth, he'd never expected it. He'd never thought he'd be any different than any other bum. And yet, his path extended far beyond the other half bloods' even. He was the child of the prophecy; he was their savior. He was even _more_ than he'd thought, and it was incomprehensible.

He'd never really thought that he could do it. Saving Olympus, saving all he loved. It seemed impossible, as he'd never really believed in himself. If he couldn't do it, everyone who had made him that someone would die. It was terrifying, beyond what the others could imagine. It walked with him with every step he took, and it never truly left his thoughts.

And in the end, he did it. He _was_ their savior, he _was_ their someone. He was the son of _proud_ Poseidon, which was more than many could say. He had saved the world, and had proven to himself all he'd ever wanted to. He was a hero. He'd been what he'd always wanted. To be brave.


End file.
